My little vessel
by xXSakura-Hime-SamaXx
Summary: (Slightly darkish) She was...perfect. She was everything he needed to set foot in their realm again, to get out of this cold mirrored land.


**I found myself liking this fic, Jashin's character is surprisingly fun to write! It's a little dark, but still okay, and a little different from my usual stuff. Another prompt from my tumblr~**

**I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!**

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He'd had his eyes set upon the little flower from a young age, her small body oddly deceiving to all those around her.

Her pink hair spoke of softness.

Her large jade eyes of innocence

And her small body of safety, of no harm.

But looks were deceiving, any shinobi should know that.

And he could taste the rage, the hatred and thirst for violence in her whenever the groups of children would crowd around her crying form.

Oh yes, He'd know she would be special.

The blond Yamanaka had pulled her from her pit of destruction just in time, but he could still smell it on her, lurking under the surface.

The urge to destroy.

To shed the blood of those that angered her, that taunted her.

His ruby eyes would appear in her mirror at night, his messy raven hair and furred cloak shadowed by the no existent light in his realm. He watched, and waited.

Watched as she became a young girl.

Then a teenager.

Then finally, a woman.

And she was exactly what he'd dreamed of when he'd first lay eyes on her.

An unstoppable pit of destruction and concealed anger, a flame in the darkness, tempting him closer and closer with every year that passed.

He'd never forget the rush of excitement he'd felt when she'd first crushed someone beneath her tiny fists, the puppets heart having been completely destroyed by her power, splattering the wall before her in a morbid work of art.

Oh yes, he'd always remember the look in her eyes, especially for the fraction of a second that they'd locked with his.

Horrified jade meeting a seemingly bottomless pit of red, death and glee floating within his gaze as his shadowed form flickered out of view.

He knew she'd pushed the event away, calling it her imagination playing up, a shinobi's paranoia.

But no, he knew then, after that seemingly chance meeting, that she was the one.

She was the one that could bring him over.

Bring him into her realm like he desperately wished.

So he'd whispered into his priest's ear, telling the white haired man little more than to kill a Konoha nin, to make the nin suffer and beg for death.

Because he needed her attention, and what better way to get it?

When his little pink haired Kunoichi heard of the news, he'd fed off her pain, her anger and sadness, her need for revenge.

And that night, his form was so very clear in her mirror, his pale white skin and bottomless red eyes sparking with glee as he oh so slowly pushed his slender hand through the glass, getting to his elbow before he got any resistance.

Yes, she was doing so well, she was doing this for him, she was perfect.

He'd gazed at her in adoration for the rest of the night, pulling his arm back in after grasping one of her old ribbons.

She was perfect.

His.

And he'd kill anyone who tried to take her away from him again.

The blond, the female Yamanaka who'd pulled her from the edge so many year ago received a surprize that night.

A surprize involving a sharp Kunai and wave after wave of guilt and sorrow, of self-pity and loathing.

And after the pinkette found out, he could manage to get his whole upper body through her vanity mirror, his arms now able to reach her oh so soft hair.

He entertained himself by stroking it night after night, sometimes even being able to brush his stone cold flesh against her own warm skin.

After the Kage summit, he could cup her cheek, stroke her soft lips with his fingers as he sat upon her vanity, his legs the only thing left in that dark, dull realm.

She was so warm and soft, softer than he'd expected.

And so very alive.

He could leave her gifts now, his powers finally having an outlet into the world, enough of his form having entered the unsuspecting land to enable him to channel them.

A flower on her bedside table, as dark as blood.

A ribbon on her vanity, one she thought lost years ago.

A new knife next to her holster, one she'd never seen the likes of before.

She didn't know where they were coming from, but his ruby eyes would flicker with barely tamed fire when she would touch them, a soft smile on her lips.

Oh yes, she was perfect.

Alive and perfect.

And the war…the war had done it.

With every soul she watched perish, with every tear she shed, he grew stronger, could slip through her mirror a little more, and could try to pull himself to her side.

Because she was in danger.

He could feel it in his black heart.

And as she watched her blond comrade fall, it happened.

He'd gotten through.

He set foot in the world, both feet firmly touching the ground as he grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the light as a non-existent breeze ruffled his messy hair.

Yes.

She was perfect.

His.

Perfect and his.

And when that mess of a man, that Madara Uchiha tried to drive a staff through her side, he'd been able to intervene.

She'd stood dumfounded, her suddenly nervous form sheltered behind his crouched one, his kneeling body tensed as the sky turned dark and all eyes turned to look at him.

Yes.

He was finally free.

He was free.

And she was his.

"Sakura…"

"Wh-who are you? What are you?!"

He grinned.

And the sky rained blood.


End file.
